29.08.2015

Finding telephone number from address

There seems to be a bit of a mystery surrounding the birth and youth of our ancestor, Albert Raymond Morton. The earliest events that any of his family knew of him was that, when a young man, he worked as a steamfitter on the Trans-Canadian Railroad.
But, as to his birth, youth and parents, there are some real gaps in what is definitely knowna€”these were not topics of discussion in his home, and it simply did not occur to anyone to quiz him about his early life. Wea€™ll keep these vague impressions in mind as they may generate some leads in our search, but we must also guard against the assumption that they are all correct.
So, with the little that we know of him, we have started to collect, and sort out, the few documents we have been able to find regarding his origin. At the time of his birth (in the 1880a€™s) states were not yet keeping actual birth certificates. Again, remember that this information was provided from Raya€™s understanding of what happened when he was an infant, and given to the state many years later. Ira Homer Morton (Alberta€™s father) is buried there, next to Iraa€™s sister, Irene Morton Crankshaw. The next document that we will discuss is his application for a Social Security account number [2].
Just below this document, we will attach another, which Albert completed just a few months later, in which he applied to the Social Security board to make a correction in his date of birth.
This leaves us wondering why he would intentionally give an older date to the state of Kansas (and to several others) and a later date to the Social Security office. But, an even more important discrepancy arises in the names, ages and places of birth of his parents. Based upon the research we have done so far, we cannot pinpoint the exact year of his birth with any certainty, and the following list will help to show the difficulty in determining that year.
We have searched the records of the 1885 KS State census for Franklin Co., and have not yet been able to find him, or his family.
We did find a record of his father, Ira Homer Morton, in the 1885 KS State census in Franklin Co., KS but in that record Ira stated that he was still a single man, unmarried, and he was living with his married sister, her family, and their aunt and a cousin. One thing that has been very consistent about Raya€™s documents is that he invariably lists his mothera€™s name as Ida Louise Easley. We searched for twenty-five years to find any record of this woman, other than those listed by Raymond, and were infuriatingly unsuccessfula€¦ until June 2012.
She was thirteen years old in the 1870 Federal census for Chetopa, Neosho Co., KS and still livng with her parents and siblings at that time.
In the 1880 Federal census for Lincoln, Neosho, Kansas, we find Aaron and Ida Bonham with a new set of twin boys, just a few months old, Clarence and Lawrence, born in early 1880. At about the same time, Aaron Bonhama€™s parents had settled in Franklin Co., Kansas, about 80 miles to the north.
After this time, we can find no document to indicate that Aaron Bonham was still alive, but neither can we prove that he had died. Aaron and Ida could have divorced, she then quickly married Ira Morton in the fall of 1885 (after the census) and they could have had a son, Raymond, the following year--Sept 1886. Aaron could have been away for an extended period and Ida could have met Ira Morton and had a child out of wedlock before Aarona€™s return. Now, keeping that dilemma in mind, leta€™s proceed with the other documents that we have been able to find for Ida L.
Note that at the time of this marriage, she was still going by the name of a€?Bonhama€? -- not Morton. The 1890 Federal census would have been very helpful to us here, but unfortunately, it was destroyed. We would never have thought to search for this record under the names of a€?Holmesa€? without first finding the record of her marriage. In the very same year, and census for the same county, we find that by the time the census taker had moved on to the home of Martha Bonhama€™s (the widowed mother of Aaron Bonham--and mother-in-law of Ida L.
Now, this census was just a very short time after the previous exhibit (above) but here, Ray is listed as being 10 years old, and with the surname of a€?Bonham.a€? It is the same young boy. Even though Raya€™s mother had moved west, to Arizona, Ray continued to live with Martha Bonham. The questions must arise, that if Ray was born a€?out of wed-locka€? while Marthaa€™s daughter-in-law was still married to her son, Aaron, one might think that of all of the children, Martha might be the least likely to take this young boy into her home to raise. Whether Ray was actually going by the Bonham name, as indicated above, or whether the census taker once again made an assumption of that, is not known.
In the 1905 KS State census we again find this family still living in Stafford Co., KS with Frank Bonham now showing as the head of the household, and Martha was still alive at age 78, but Ray is no longer living with them. It is interesting that Ida stated that her parent were born in KY, because in prior census records she had always correctly stated they were born in Tennessee.
In the 1920 Federal census for Bakersfield, Kern Co., CA we find the family has moved inland. Note that Margaret Bonham Kelly had named her oldest son, William Raymond Kelly, with his middle name being a remembrance of her younger brother, Albert Raymond Morton.
We have heard that Ida Louise Easley Bonham (Morton) Holmes Hamilton passed away in Bakersfield, CA in the 1930s but we do not have a specific date for her death at this time.
In only one record, his a€?Delayed Certificate of Birtha€? did Ray give an estimated age for his father. We have searched all the available records to try to find anyone by this exact name who may have lived in Kansas, Missouri, Ohio, or any other surrounding state during this period of time and have found no one with that exact name.
We previously mentioned the 1885 Kansas State census [9] in which a€?Ira Mortona€? was living in Williamsburg, Franklin Co., Kansas with his sister, Irene E. From this record, we have been able to go back to both Wisconsin, and New York, and find many records for this particular man.
The purpose of this article is to document Raya€™s life, so we will not list all of the documentation for his parents, but merely summarize the key points that are pertinent.
This connection, through Ohio, may account for why Ray understood that his father may have come from, and even been born in Cleveland, Ohio, and listed that city as the birth place of his father on one of the documents cited earlier. One other brief comment about this family: When Aunt Shirley Morton Donaldson, Raya€™s youngest daughter, went to Kansas on her research trip, and found the reference to George and Irene Crankshaw living in Williamsburg, she said that that name seemed to have a familiar ring to her from hearing comments made by her father years earlier. We really know very little about Raya€™s youth, but with his consistent statements that he was born in Ottawa, Franklin County, Kansas, that is the first place we began looking. We actually have no other record for him anywhere between the 1900 census record mentioned earlier (for Stafford Co., KS) and the next one in 1915. We did find one interesting record from 1912 that showed a Raymond Morton tried to cross over the boarder into Canada but was turned back by the authorities.
Although the Canadian recruiter judged him fit for duty at the time of his enlistment, Ray was in fact discharged from the army on 18 June 1916 in Toronto, Ontario with the comment that he was a€?medically unfit.a€? He had been entered on the a€?Casualty Forma€? on 22 May 1916 before the actual discharge came through about four weeks later. From this point we know that Ray made his way back to Big Valley, Alberta and went to work in the mines. This couple moved from place to place seeking work primarily on government jobs, particularly thoughtout the great depression.
From this point on, the family has a clear knowledge and recollection of Raya€™s life, and so we will not go into that in this article. It appears that from about 1895, when Ray was approximately 8-10 years old, that he left his mother and siblings to live elsewhere. We hope this presentation is helpful to any of Alberta€™s posterity in future efforts of trying to find and document his life and his ancestry. Note that at the time of this marriage, she was still going by the name of a€?Bonhama€? -- not Morton.A  This adds credence to the supposition that she may not have actually married Ira H. Currently the Mayor of London, he previously served as the Member of Parliament for Henley-on-Thames and as editor of The Spectator magazine.
Johnson was educated at the European School of Brussels, Ashdown House School, Eton College and Balliol College, Oxford, where he read Literae Humaniores. On his father's side Johnson is a great-grandson of Ali Kemal Bey, a liberal Turkish journalist and the interior minister in the government of Damat Ferid Pasha, Grand Vizier of the Ottoman Empire, who was murdered during the Turkish War of Independence.[5] During World War I, Boris's grandfather and great aunt were recognised as British subjects and took their grandmother's maiden name of Johnson.
Try as I might, I could not look at an overhead projection of a growth profit matrix, and stay conscious. He wrote an autobiographical account of his experience of the 2001 election campaign Friends, Voters, Countrymen: Jottings on the Stump.
Johnson is a popular historian and his first documentary series, The Dream of Rome, comparing the Roman Empire and the modern-day European Union, was broadcast in 2006. After being elected mayor, he announced that he would be resuming his weekly column for The Daily Telegraph. After having been defeated in Clwyd South in the 1997 general election, Johnson was elected MP for Henley, succeeding Michael Heseltine, in the 2001 General Election. He was appointed Shadow Minister for Higher Education on 9 December 2005 by new Conservative Leader David Cameron, and resigned as editor of The Spectator soon afterwards. A report in The Times[22] stated that Cameron regarded the possible affair as a private matter, and that Johnson would not lose his job over it. The Conservative Party hired Australian election strategist Lynton Crosby to run Johnson's campaign. Johnson pledged to introduce new Routemaster-derived buses to replace the city's fleet of articulated buses if elected Mayor.
I believe Londoners should have a greater say on how their city is run, more information on how decisions are made and details on how City Hall money is spent. Ken Livingstone presides over a budget of more than ?10billion and demands ?311 per year from the average taxpaying household in London. Under my Mayoralty I am certain that London will be judged as a civilised place; a city that cares for and acknowledges its older citizens. The Mayor’s biggest area of responsibility is transport, and I intend to put the commuter first by introducing policies that will first and foremost make journeys faster and more reliable. Spent the first couple days on a high-speed grind across six states I'd already crossed and re-crossed dozens of times since college.
I did consider passing the miles by counting trees (Hey, I've done similar with kayak strokes by the thousands) but there were just too many of them. I finally just shifted into Stoic mode -- which I'm good at a€“ hunkering down and staring at the road ahead for dangerous debris. Occasionally I see an annoying sign alongside the highway and latch onto its theme to pass the time. My traveling companion (I'd say my pal) Kawasaki has been behaving and is giving me 50 mpg. Who knows, you may get lucky and I'll be left speechless by the beauty of the Great Plains.
In the 62 years I've been consuming corn -- popped, on the cob, candy corn, tortillas, chips, corn syrup and liquor -- I'm sure I haven't eaten more than an acre's worth, tops two. Spent most of yesterday crossing Missouri on Route 70, a nondescript stretch of highway notable mostly for its gentle undulations -- like a kiddie roller-coaster -- and the amazing number of billboards atop 50-foot stanchions lining both sides of the road. The pace is going well enough that I'm giving up the interstates for the smaller, slower roads. The drawback to abandoning the interstate is no longer having the shelter of the underpasses when there's rain or lightning.


98 degrees yesterday, possibly higher today, and the engine I'm straddling ups it even further. But, as they tell you at the beginning or end of many church services, "This is the day we are given.
Drove up into the Bighorn Mountains yesterday to get some relief -- and it did knock 10 or 15 degrees off.
Spotted a fluid leak from my rear axle, which is a concern because I have limited tools with me and even less know-how. But I remember seeing it in 1952 and unless they've added some guys up there, I figure I'm covered.
This stark, barren topography of northern Wyoming looks so familiar to me, and I realize it's from that 1952 trip when the Old Man drove Mom and us four boys out here to see the national parks. Traveling in the car with him was like being confined in tight quarters with a very cranky grizzly bear. Aside from the 1,500 miles of lush farmland from Ohio to Nebraska and the Bighorns, I liked the Black Hills of South Dakota lots -- if you erase the tourist towns of Custer, Sulphur Springs and Keystone, which are pure kitsch. Last night I drove far afield and couldn't make it back to a population center where they might have brand-name lodging -- Holiday Inn, etc. The large dining was was empty except for five young waitresses on break, sitting at a round table with a quiet young fellow about their age. The youngest and smallest of the ladies -- I'd say she'd just finished high school, or was about to -- came over and asked if it was cold outside. Then she grabbed a telephone and called her boss, who apparently had composed and printed the menu.
The other waitresses had jumped up and gone through the entire supply of new menus, only finding the a€?bubesa€? misprint in four of them. I pulled out a map to occupy myself: Yes, I was the one who found the typo, but I was laying low on this topic.
Still bothered by the SUV rollover I came upon three days ago high in the Bighorn National Park. The lone occupant of the vehicle, a Jordanian student working at a park resort for the summer, had multiple and truly grave injuries -- fractures, gashes, internal bleeding that was bloating his belly.
Although successive people held his hand and tried to encourage him -- and a passing doctor and EMT specialist did all they could -- what he really needed was an operating room, quick.
So he lay in agony alongside the road for almost two hours until an ambulance arrived from a town 30 miles down below and carried him to a patch of road that was flat and open enough for a medevac helicopter to put down.
As for the rodeo action, for me it was like expecting to see the Yankees and getting the Newark Bears -- not even a€?single-Aa€? ball.
Many lassoes were flung but few calves were roped, barrels mostly got knocked over in the circle-the-barrels horse races, and nearly every cowboy immediately got bounced off the bucking broncos and bulls.
The most fun of the night was when they invited all kids 12 and under to the arena floor to win a prize for snatching ribbons ribbons tied to the tails of three calves running loose. I was hoping the boy, who appeared bright enough to do it, would remind him that New Hampshire was one of the original colonies, but maybe he was too polite. The Testicle Festival near Missoula, Mont., is in mid-August this year, and I'll be long gone.
So many bikers around the South Dakota-Montana-Wyoming junction that everyone's a€?quit waving. The road west through the Lolo Pass into the Bitterroot Mountains overlies, in part, the path of the Lewis and Clark Expedition of 1805-06. For me, to travel over the same ground covered by these 32 brave and resourceful men (never forgetting the remarkable Sacajewea with her baby) is an electric experience. For me, to drive along this pathway -- now Route 12 -- was a privilege and an honor I can't properly put into words.
The journals of Lewis and Clark are among the great American documents and the best kind of adventure tale -- a true story experienced by people we hope we could emulate. Two of them were in a motel in Grand Island, Neb., two in a passing car in South Dakota and one in a roadside softball game in Nevada. True, I haven't gone through any real cities, but I'm wracking my brain and I can't recall seeing any other African-Americans.
In the category of What Else Is New?: a€?In Riggins, Idaho, a rough-feeling former mining town on the Salmon River, now a a€?summer rafting center, a 50-ish tourist I'd seen an hour earlier strolling on the street a€?lurches away from the Salmon Inn, a billiards joint that sells beer and pizza.
Rolled my bike out of my brother-in-law's San Diego garage, reset the odometer to zero from the 5,060 miles recorded on the westbound leg, and I'm off! The terrain turns bleak just a handful of miles east of San Diego: Barrenness, rock piles, occasional scrawny bushes. In this visual monotony, the mind drifts and I recall driving past a menacing looking blockhouse of a bar in San Diego that had a foot-square white sign on its door.
From Yuma east to Tucson is Moon-like landscape with scrub brush and mountains in the distance. Had the joy, in the far outskirts of Phoenix, of spending eight hours or so talking with Bil Canfield, the best cartoonist The Star-Ledger and before that The Newark Evening News, ever had. Drove -- and drove some more -- east through the startling sprawl that is Phoenix and into the Pinal Mountains. I drove nearly all the way across New Mexico staring at the a€?skies: Fortunately, the straightness of Interstate 10 let me do it without a€?wrecking. I know it's a vestige of my time in the military, but I have a great a€?aversion to people in uniforms. Well, this strip above the Mexican border-- from California across to Texas -- is positively crawling with uniforms.
You see them in McDonald's, they're racing around in trucks, they're in helicopters scouring the desert, they're at random checkpoints miles north of the border. The waitress was a bubbly local girl named Cindy who was pleasant enough but had a voice so shrill it pierced to the bone. There's a lot of guys in these parts driving pickup trucks in what I would call a hostile manner. The 140 miles of Route 180 north from El Paso to the Guadelupe Mountains National Park are little-traveled but gorgeous.
I left the bike on the shoulder of the highway and walked off 100 feet to try capturing the scene with my camera. He gives me the exact mileages, tells me how long it'll take to get there, says where to turn en route and notes that there's 18 miles of construction along the way but it shouldn't slow me down.
The sky heading north into West Texas was all bright and blue except for one dark patch, which grew larger as I rolled onward As the black area expanded I could see lightning strikes and columns of rain in its core.
I sped up -- to 90 mph at one point -- figuring I would outrun it or outflank it, but the storm always stayed directly before me. While I was struggling to put a tarp over the bike, a blocky lady sheriff in a gray-panted uniform ran out of the diner to her cruiser. I covered my bike, took a photo of the nastiest looking sky I've ever seen and sprinted to the safety of the diner. The young fellow, wearing a Texas Tech T-shirt, brushed dead flies off my table next to the front window. Half a dozen were bouncing against the window pane and others were flitting on and off about every surface in the place.
I ordered a coffee and burger and waited, taking comfort in being in a safe place with a kid who seemed to understand weather conditions I didn't. In another few minutes I gave up trying to clear my helmet visor by hand: I lifted it and took the rain in my face.
I couldn't judge which way the storm was traveling, so there was no evasive actiona€?to take. I spent the better part of one day crossing the length of Oklahoma east to west with a 30 mph blow going on. Finally, Cheryl got them all up and busy, filling sugar bowls and wiping down chairs in advance of lunch, and I left.
So many bikers around the South Dakota-Montana-Wyoming junction that everyone's quit waving.
I'm saving one Butte mystery for another visit: How a bar in a blue-collar neighborhood next to the pitmine got the name Helsinki Yacht Club. I get the impression a lot of folks out here don't much care for Easterners, or maybe it's just me personally they don't like. In the category of What Else Is New?: In Riggins, Idaho, a rough-feeling former mining town on the Salmon River, now a summer rafting center, a 50-ish tourist I'd seen an hour earlier strolling on the street lurches away from the Salmon Inn, a billiards joint that sells beer and pizza. A A  Had the joy, in the far outskirts of Phoenix, of spending eight hours or so talking with Bil Canfield, the best cartoonist The Star-Ledger and before that The Newark Evening News, ever had. A A A  Drove -- and drove some more -- east through the startling sprawl that is Phoenix and into the Pinal Mountains.
A A A  I drove nearly all the way across New Mexico staring at the skies: Fortunately, the straightness of Interstate 10 let me do it without wrecking. A A  I know it's a vestige of my time in the military, but I have a great aversion to people in uniforms.
A A  The waitress was a bubbly local girl named Cindy who was pleasant enough but had a voice so shrill it pierced to the bone. A A  There's a lot of guys in these parts driving pickup trucks in what I would call a hostile manner. A A  The 140 miles of Route 180 north from El Paso to the Guadelupe Mountains National Park are little-traveled but gorgeous.
A A  I left the bike on the shoulder of the highway and walked off 100 feet to try capturing the scene with my camera. In the second document, he changed his year of birth to 1883--which now coincides with his recreated birth certificate. Morton Crankshaw and her family, as well as their widowed Aunt Sarah Cather, and her son, Henry Cather (a cousin of Iraa€™s). 1915, Raymond was standing in the Army recruitera€™s office in Toronto, Ontario, Canada, where he enlisted in the Canadian Over-seas Expeditionary Force. Easley Bonham--the twins who died at just a few months old, and the four living children, three of which (# 1, 2 & 4) all claim that Aaron Bonham was their father, but #3 (Raymond) always claimed that his father was Ira Morton. Aaron and Ida could have divorced, she then quickly married Ira Morton in the fall of 1885 (after the census) and they could have had a son, Raymond, the following year--Sept 1886.A  We know Ira died in 1888, and Ida could have been reconciled to Aaron and remarried him with Bernice born to them in 1888-89.
In reference to his cosmopolitan ancestry, Johnson has described himself as a "one-man melting pot" — with a combination of Muslims, Jews and Christians comprising his great-grandparentage.[6] His father's maternal grandmother, Marie Louise de Pfeffel, was a descendant of Prince Paul of Wurttemberg through his relationship with a German actress. They have two sons—Milo Arthur (born 1995) and Theodore Apollo (born 1999)—and two daughters—Lara Lettice (born 1993) and Cassia Peaches (born 1997).[13] Boris Johnson and his family currently live in Holloway, North London. In 1999 he became editor of The Spectator, where he stayed until December 2005 upon being appointed Shadow Minister for Higher Education. He is also author of three collections of journalism, Johnson's Column, Lend Me Your Ears and Have I Got Views For You.
On 2 April 2006 it was alleged in the News of the World that Johnson had had another extramarital affair, this time with Times Higher Education Supplement journalist Anna Fazackerley. Yet Londoners have little confidence in the Mayor spending their money with care and prudence.


It was here that David Cameron and all his supporters gathered to congratulate him on becoming Mayor of London. I did have a deer bound in front of me on Route 80 in Pennsylvania but my horn-honking turned him.
But these cornfields stretch outwards hundreds and hundreds of miles from here (Grand Island, Neb.). I think it's to find some little bit of company and comfort out among all the larger vehicles. Without that cover overhead, you're on open country roads getting soaked and -- worse -- sitting on a big piece of metal that attracts electrical charges. Forecast for the next four days where I'm going in Montana-Idaho is for the same temp, with chances of afternoon thunderstorms.
The look of the Bighorn National Forest is austere, powerful, vast, a lot of rock faces with detritus heaps below.
I was concerned the fuel injector wouldn't automatically adjust to these changes in altitude (4,500 feet on the high desert to 9,000 in the Bighorns), but it's purring wherever I take it. Rushmore the other day but didn't make the effort to go see it, which sounds vaguely anti-American even to me. It was hard traveling, especially to make a two-week 4,000-mile round trip like the Old Man did, as the lone driver. But he did want us to see places maybe most kids didn't and I think he wanted to make us adventurous. The formula for making them would be: Take a sea of sand about 200 miles across, stir it up a bit so you get rounded, swelling waves, top it with tall grass, sprinkle lightly with black Angus cattle and every mile or so plunk down a windmill to draw water for the cattle.
As I ate, dust clouds from the adjacent road being repaved swirled around the parking lot, a crushed root beer cup was whirling in irregular circles near the table, and in the distance, jagged lightning bolts among the dark clouds atop the Bighorns. I explained that my leather jacket wasn't for warmth, but for padding, in case I fell off the bike.
The last thing I am is a flag waver, but when the pennants of the rodeo's sponsors -- Coca-Cola, Dairy Queen, Pinnacle Bank, the U.S. Picking their way along Indian trails and bushwhacking through the towering evergreens, Lewis and Clark had no idea how deep this forest would be, only that the Pacific lay somewhere ahead. I stopped along the way to read every historical marker, each keying the location to a specific entry in the two expedition leaders' daily journal.
With this kind of light ahead, I think I'll need shades every morning till about 10:00 all the way home. Then the Imperial Valley, which is inhuman in its sterile, mass-production agriculture way. The landscape is all creosote bushes about 20 feet apart and occasional gray rock ridges sticking out of the dust like the dorsals of buried lizards. Who's more manly, Hulk Hogan or Mahatma Gandhi, who probably couldn't bench-press two Wheaties boxes on a stick but helped topple the British Empire? I assume folks come here to warm their old bones -- it gets to 115 degrees in summer -- and stretch their savings. The old copper mining towns of Miami and Globe have great potential for photos but the light was wrong and I couldn't wait for it to get right.
Billowing several thousand feet in the air, it a€?looks like the product of the largest explosion that ever was, but it a€?doesn't float away or change in any way. The driver was from Utah -- and a look-alike for actor Charles Laughton -- who had doubled back to see if I needed help. If my bike had been disabled, he'd have committed himself to driving me 75 miles to arrange for repair, and he knew that. I veered off the road next to a small town's grain elevator, which I thought might give me some cover.
Its occupants turned out be a skinny kid in charge, who stood about six-foot-six, somebody working the kitchen, me, and about a thousand flies. After about half an hour the kid said, "If you're goin' to Lubbock, you should be all right now.
I could still see a thin strip of blue sky and sunshine before me along the horizon, but raindrops began pelting my windshield. Hailstones began to mix in with the rain, pellets about the size of peas ricocheting off my plastic windshield and helmet. I was hanging off the right side of the seat and still had to tilt the bike a couple degrees in that direction to counter-act the northbound wind.
As I ate, dust clouds from the adjacent road being repaved swirled around the parking lot, a crushed root beer cup was whirling in irregular circles near the table, and in the distance,A  jagged lightning bolts among the dark clouds atop the Bighorns. Someone has popped him on the cheekbones as perfectly as as you can be punched -- pinpoint shots. Billowing several thousand feet in the air, it looks like the product of the largest explosion that ever was, but it doesn't float away or change in any way. Through Prince Paul, Johnson is a descendant of King George II, and through George's great-great-great grandfather King James I a descendant of all of the previous British royal houses. His comic first novel Seventy-Two Virgins was published in 2004,[16] and his next book will be The New British Revolution, though he has put publication on hold until after the London Mayoral election.[17] He was nominated in 2004 for a British Academy Television Award, and has attracted several unofficial fan clubs and sites. In 2004 he was appointed to the front bench as Shadow Minister for the Arts in a small reshuffle resulting from the resignation of the Shadow Home Affairs Spokesman, Nick Hawkins. Driving through the puddles on the highway was a little unnerving but there were no overpasses for shelter, so I had to keep going. Louis for Night 3, but otherwise it's been just the banter with waitresses and gas station folks. I got out the sturdy Pope Paul II church key someone gave me (OK, I bought it) and used it as a kind of giant screwdriver to tighten the fluid cover.
I drove hundreds of miles out of my way to get there because it was billed across the state as a hi-grade rodeo.
They bolted and the kids chased them every which way, sprawling in the dirt and whatever else was on the ground. When I walked away from the bike to take photos I found a€?myself straining to get enough oxygen. Winter was approaching, and the party's hunters were having no success in finding game on the steep slopes of these unending woods. Lassen, Calif., to visit with my buddy of five decades Ted and his wife Carolyn, then wrap it up with two broiling days down Veggie Valley (California's Route 5) to San Diego. Don't know if you have to bring your own water: I sure didn't pass over a flowing stream or see a lake for a couple hundred miles. Bil suffers from Blatt's Sydrome, wherein the body ages normally but the mind never makes it past 18 -- well, maybe 15 in Bil's case.
The place bored me quickly: Only the cowboy hats distinguish this casino from the the East Coast brand. The pluses with a bike are limited to the physicality of the travel -- if you like that -- and a natural buzz from rolling along out in the open. When I walked away from the bike to take photos I found myself straining to get enough oxygen. Hamilton.A  It could be that for personal safety reasons, that she listed the name of her deceased husband as if he were still living, but there is another listing with the date of 30 Nov.
In 1995 a recording of a telephone conversation was made public revealing a plot by a friend to physically assault a News of the World journalist. After half minute of mayhem, the boy who had grabbed the first ribbon brought his proof to the announcer in the center of the arena. About 17 years old, he's attempting to a€?grow a beard but it's a€?sketchy and mostly fuzz. And the clouds, which are soft and thinnish at eye level, become brilliant white, three-dimensional puffs directly above. I thought maybe they had given me the plexiglass model from the a€?food showcase in the lobby and slathered barbecue sauce on it. I thought maybe they had given me the plexiglass model from the food showcase in the lobby and slathered barbecue sauce on it.
I ate my Papaburger Special at a giant picnic table in front of the place, joined by by six unruly kids who piled out of a van from Missouri. A redhead, a€?about 30, who Ia€™d seen walking with him earlier, chases after him for a a€?while, a€?calling his name. A redhead, about 30, who Ia€™d seen walking with him earlier, chases after him for a while, calling his name.
Summit reminded me a€?of the fjord area around Bergen, Norway -- no trees, just rock and some hardy a€?vegetation.
He had a€?fond memories of the place, which police shuttered in 1982 after 100 years of operation.a€?a€?Went out for a beer in Uptown, but the bars were too raucous.
She gives up after 100 feet, turns and runs back to throw her a€?arms around the neck of the guy who did the thrashing, a very beefy fellow about a€?25 in a muscle T-shirt.
Summit reminded me of the fjord area around Bergen, Norway -- no trees, just rock and some hardy vegetation. He had fond memories of the place, which police shuttered in 1982 after 100 years of operation.Went out for a beer in Uptown, but the bars were too raucous. She gives up after 100 feet, turns and runs back to throw her arms around the neck of the guy who did the thrashing, a very beefy fellow about 25 in a muscle T-shirt. Negatively, entire working class neighborhoods were gobbled up by the mining company as a€?the pit expanded.a€?The Uptown District is on the National Register of Historic Places but that's a€?not doing much for its current economic health. Negatively, entire working class neighborhoods were gobbled up by the mining company as the pit expanded.The Uptown District is on the National Register of Historic Places but that's not doing much for its current economic health. They're trying to restore the a€?district but it still looks worn, like the subjects of an Edward Hopper painting. They're trying to restore the district but it still looks worn, like the subjects of an Edward Hopper painting.
I love Hopper.a€?I stayed at the Mindlen Hotel, a 1924 knockoff of the now-demolished Astor a€?Hotel in NYC, but this version's only nine stories tall. I love Hopper.I stayed at the Mindlen Hotel, a 1924 knockoff of the now-demolished Astor Hotel in NYC, but this version's only nine stories tall. The Mindlen's been a€?restored to its a€?original condition, which was that of a fine businessmen's hotel. The Mindlen's been restored to its original condition, which was that of a fine businessmen's hotel. Tall-columned a€?lobby, chandeliers, marble floors.a€?I didn't detect there were any other guests with me on the second floor, which a€?is maybe why I slept so well.
Tall-columned lobby, chandeliers, marble floors.I didn't detect there were any other guests with me on the second floor, which is maybe why I slept so well.



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